


So Spit into the Cannon's Mouth

by odoridango



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Road Trips, Shimada Drama (TM)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-10-23 21:46:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17691671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/odoridango/pseuds/odoridango
Summary: No more thought experiments, everything he does is permanent, leaves marks and trails. Whether or not the world is watching, the fact is that Genji is watching his own each and every movement, wondering if he can truly pull off the biggest trick, the biggest miracle and stroke of luck, he ever has in his life so far.In other words, Genji finds Hanzo and they travel together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Started writing this on summer prompts originally posted by solivar last year and ended up veering off track. But this is basically a Shimada-centric id fic for me. 
> 
> Explores Genji's POV, and works on a couple premises: 1) What if Genji and Hanzo were forced to deal with each other in close quarters before everything is resolved, 2) Hanzo is Done with Everything, and 3) "The treatment of the Shimada brothers within Overwatch fan interpretations often adheres strongly to limited, archetypal narratives of the Asian-American experience in this essay I will"
> 
> Title is from a Caligula's Horse interlude. Enjoy!

In his years of wandering, Genji used to wonder if things could be different. It was a thought that had never approached him in the years before, when he was just a pulp of blood and meat and bone on a gurney, without even the consciousness to wonder at the thin boundaries between body, mind, and soul, and the states of each, just seemingly in shock, in horror, in anger, all of him, regardless of what part. He certainly never thought that way in Blackwatch, hellbent on getting his pound of flesh, to mirror the pain that rocked him each and every day on whatever he set eyes on. It was inconceivable, then, that people did not know the kind of daily agony that could eat someone up inside, to the point where one wondered if there was a someone, a something, an unquantified mass that could even be referred to in any capacity.

But even shed of his former shell, with a newer, more customized carapace to shield his fragile nerves, he still felt electrified, a livewire, jittering each day with new pains, brimming with untold uncertainties. The slow creep towards the dismantling of the Shimada empire had needled at him, and he found himself filled not with eagerness or even the sharp desire to hurt and rend that had consumed him the year before, but a strange apprehensiveness as Blackwatch investigations turned up the sort of shady activities they had been precisely seeking, but in far lower frequency and quantity than expected. Than he expected. Things weren’t right. Things weren’t going as they should have been. Things were not as Genji suspected and thought.

And once it was all over, it was all he could think about: what would things have been like if they were different? If he had killed Hanzo? If Hanzo had spared him? If Hanzo had helped him? If they rose to the helm of the clan together? And gradually, he wondered if he himself regret the decisions he had made, not working to compromise with the wishes of the clan and Hanzo, not looking for other ways out, not standing still enough to take measure of the incoming tides that his mother, father, and brother had long borne. He may not have understood the minutiae of their work, but he hardly could have been so carefree without their interference.

At first, even wandering so close to such thoughts struck him with a sort of defensive fury. How could he even think of blaming himself, with the evidence of Hanzo’s crime so close and so visceral? How could he give even a centimeter, when they had taken almost everything away? How could he betray himself so?

The last thing he had seen, lying there, bleeding out, was his brother’s crying face. It had filled him with rage then; how dare he cry, when he lay dying, ripped apart by Hanzo’s hand? Sorrow and regrets did nothing. Inaction did nothing. Genji should have torn him apart.

But wandering, all alone, aimless, finally with no one to tell him what to do or how to behave, no appointments and tune-ups to attend, just his heirloom katana and wakizashi, a burner phone tucked away, those thoughts kept circling him. What if things had been different? What if they had both paid more attention to each other? What if Hanzo had been more loyal? What if they had both been more loyal?

And again, Hanzo’s crying face. His murderer’s crying face, his betrayer’s crying face, his brother’s crying face, all of it one and the same, collapsing in and on each other. He would dream of when Hanzo used to help him clean up his building blocks, only to find that it was his lungs, his legs, his right arm and humanity that his brother was tucking away instead, the blood leaking steadily between his fingers.

If things were the other way around, would Genji have cried too? Would he have marked Hanzo’s death with a pilgrimage each year, burnt incense as tradition bid, spent years in penance? In the beautiful, desolate, frozen silences of Nepal, there were times where Genji didn’t want to answer that question. Didn’t want to think about who he and Hanzo were. What was he doing in the time that he so desperately needed for himself, thinking about how to absolve the person who killed him?

He’s played out the scenario now, witnessed the counter-murder himself; he’s held the wakizashi to his brother’s throat, felt the fury of the dragon summoning, seen Hanzo’s disbelieving gaze and his odd anger and defensiveness, acting as if Genji’s memory were a thing to be protected and treasured. He’s felt the tremble of his blade despite what automated stabilizers should have stilled, the potentiality there. He’s shoved the echo of all his rage in Hanzo’s face, impervious in anonymity, forced him to look at what he did, insulted him for returning to the site of his biggest crime year after year, and thinking it enough. And he’s ashamed to have even succumbed to that temptation, that playacting of six years ago when he had nothing but consumptive range. He thought he had learned better. He thought he had been ready for forgiveness.

There is much still to learn, including, apparently – remembering that leaving behind a method of communication is more important than a flashy exit, even if one is flustered and trying to play it cool. He had half expected the rumors to be lies and be watching an empty castle all night; the ill-considered encounter left him shaky and full of adrenaline. But he’s got another burner phone on hand, and he places it outside on the engawa of the shrine hall, impossible to miss.

There is still much to learn, and much to say.


	2. Chapter 2

**Ani**  
Do as you like.

Learning to speak to Hanzo again is a uniquely frustrating experience. Genji has always struggled to understand his brother and the mechanisms of his mind, but it never seems to work, to the point where in their teenage years, Genji had quite literally thrown his hands into the air and given up.

All Hanzo says is variations on the theme of telling Genji to do whatever he wishes, but the whole point is that Genji doesn’t want to do whatever he wants. He’s had enough of that. He wants to know what Hanzo thinks. He wants to know what Hanzo has to say. He wants to sit and take his time to understand what it was he might have missed all those years ago, when he decided to give up, when they both decided things were set in stone.

 **Me**  
if I wanted to do that I wouldnt be asking u??? its a simple question do u want yatsuhashi or not

Digging, always digging. Getting information out of Hanzo took patience and time. He never said what he really wanted or meant, just looked into Genji’s eyes, scrutinizing, as if his own brother was yet another one of the innumerable business partners that he met out on those stuffy lunches. And so Genji had started calling him Anija, an old name for an old boy. Fitting, Genji had thought, for someone who seemed so preoccupied with tradition and business, what Hanzo liked to call practicality but what Genji liked to call boredom. Over time, the title had soured, a reflection of their relationship – a mocking name for their rotting, antiquated sibling relationship, something so far buried in history that it wasn’t even really reflected in the vernacular anymore. Just another thing studied by dry specialists which had no useful application whatsoever to the average person in the modern age. Another relic to add to the collection.

 **Ani**  
I had some last week.

 **Me**  
see u could have led w that.

The pattern of their conversations still feels so familiar that he could easily be fooled into thinking he could ask for more. He could ask why Hanzo was in Kyoto, he could ask if he goes on a nationwide tour every year, he could ask if he had a contract there. But there are lines to be drawn still, and he remembers how quickly a casual conversation could fall into ruins.

 **Me**  
were u in Kyoto

There. Simple, to the point.

 **Ani**  
Why do you ask?

Ahhhh. Simple is never what it seems with Hanzo. He wants to stop thinking that he knows what Hanzo will say and do, because in all likeliness this brother is a stranger. It’s been eight years since they last saw each other. He wonders how Hanzo remembers him.

 **Me**  
wwww where else would u get yatsuhashi I haven’t been there in a long time so I was wondering if you went recently u got some recs

Travel plans seems like something safe to talk about. But it seems almost absurd to be talking about souvenirs after so many years of separation. The conversation feels dangerous. Genji is just in a mountain clearing for rest, but it’s as if he were gearing up for a battlefield. He releases his vents, savors the release of pressurized air. Homeostasis.

 **Ani**  
The konpeito shop is still there.

Genji loved konpeito. Not for the taste, though the shop had the best flavors that actually tasted like how they were supposed to. He liked their colors, the personalities in their knobby, asymmetrical shapes. Now it’s the opposite, and he likes them for their taste and texture. Sweetness strong enough that even he can taste it.

 **Me**  
good to know

Strangely enough, it is. He didn’t think he would ever return to Hanamura, or even Japan, for any length of time, but he’s done it several times now, partially for Blackwatch missions, but now also for Hanzo. And he wants to see how things have changed. He wants to wash the clan from his mind and compared to the rest of Japan, Hanamura is merely a small town, a sightseeing spot near Mount Fuji, a rest stop. And Hanzo clearly hasn’t entirely stayed away himself, despite his high bounty and notoriety.

Genji is back in Japan, having the same old conversations with his murderous brother, lightly arguing over sweets. It feels surreal. Perhaps when he reaches Kyoto he’ll have a better idea of what to do next. He’s begun to tread in the well-worn paths of the past, but it also piques him. He wants to take the past and smash it. He wants to rewrite everything, rewire it all, reformat it, just like he was. Because things are not the same, and the frantic flutter in his blood wants things done now, now, now.

He exhales slowly. He must remind himself to have patience. Zenyatta did not guide him for nothing. Genji is a different man. Hanzo is a different man. However they move forward, they must create a path to walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "wwww" is Japanese text talk equivalent to laughter. the w stands for "wara", the kanji for laugh. Yatsuhashi is a famous souvenir sweet local to Kyoto, which does indeed have a well known konpeito shop, Ryokujuan Shimizu, which apparently makes sweets for the imperial family.


	3. Chapter 3

Thinking on his master’s words, Genji admits it to himself: he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. Disoriented, walking along bright-lit, bustling city streets past humans and omnics alike, no one spares him a single glance. Two people have asked to take pictures with him, asked about his mods and base model, complimented him, somewhat creepily, about his choice of alloys and color scheme. Genji’s well accustomed to this odd tightrope-and-trapeze act of being mistaken for an omnic, the sense of wary balance before a swooping fall, but being back in Japan throws him off course. Neither one or the other, as always, but it is an odd thing for there to be such an acute sense of both fetishization and casual feigned acceptance.

An interest in varied products with tailored aesthetics made Japan a prime test market for Omnica Corp. before the Omnic Crisis, and even when the East China Sea Omnium activated, an aged population and warm reception toward new technology meant that the relationships and conveniences that omnics brought, whether it be the full-fledged caretaking that saw omnics wholeheartedly absorbed into the households they served in, or the small experimental models that acted much liked pets and had much less practical utility, were viewed in an extremely sentimental, almost romanticized manner.

What resulted was a confused hodgepodge of responses: shady, conservative forums explored the possibilities of omnic technology generating larger sources of energy and greater military might, increasing Japan’s status in the eyes of the world, and fighting off the foreigners that even now were preventing the country from blossoming to its full potential; niche fetish blogs spawned in the crevices between otaku stereotypes and the dark mythos revolving about overworked salarymen seeking transgressive escapes from mundanity; a thriving omnic fashion community flourished, often including mod tutorials held by celebrity omnic influencers; increasingly avant garde microtonal, rhythmically erratic, footwork-and-breakcore-adjacent singles flooded local music blogs and communities, omnic influenced or made; family-friendly columns featured heartwarming stories about metal neighbors and friends; straightforward engineering enthusiasts and academics kept up lively conversations on mechanics, chips, and programming; and casual armchair philosophers, thinkers, and dreamers pondered on the ensuing proliferation of cultural and social effects and wondered what it could all mean for the future.

But riding right alongside was prominent anxiety, an echo of late 20th century concerns on the hollowness of the dream electric, pierced through with streaks of dystopia and nihilism and the loss of the self, and the difference, or lack of thereof, between dreaming and waking. For his part, Genji hasn’t bothered trying to watch Ghost in the Shell or Serial Experiments Lain in the years since he’s become a cyborg, though there have been times where he’s been tempted.

As the oceanic omnic assault on Okinawa, Kyushu, Shikoku, and the Chuubu and Chuugoku prefectures persisted, the split in the national consciousness continued to widen. Fears of looming destruction, evacuation orders, and the spreading stories of refugees and survivors prompted a renaissance of new religions, with new sects of Buddhism, doomsday cults, and entirely new universal and spiritual dogmas spreading among the populace, and a distinctly, disturbingly familiar rhetoric of country, sacrifice, and honor was once again revived, particularly in circulating ideas of having omnics, when in danger of being taken over by the God Program known as the Ikuji, act as kamikaze agents to help protect hearth and home. This in turn sparked protests and a furious influx of writings about how Japan as a nation should have learned from its previous mistakes, and that it was discriminatory to even allude that a human life might be of more value than an omnic one, or the implication that omnics could choose whether or not they fought for God Programs.  

As a result, Japan emerged from the Crisis a divided nation. Some believed that the high number of foreign army bases established on the island was part of what had incited the Omnium to attack, and that it was therefore essential to set goals towards removing foreign military presence in Japan, making it amply clear that Japan was a modern country capable of defending its own that would not be undermined or intimidated by foreign powers. With Article 9 still a strong topic of debate, even after revision efforts had been suspended, the more confrontational, isolationist approach incited tensions and sparked mass protests from the people and omnics who were still struggling to rebuild.

In fact, in the wake of the Crisis, to many, Article 9 seemed more important than ever. The northern prefectures, while affected, had taken much less direct damage than the southern islands and prefectures, prompting mass displacements and overcrowding in urban areas. With urban and rural stereotypes planted right next to each other, and bitter Ryukyuans sick and tired of their lives being co-opted and militarized, the country was quickly confronted with the fact that it had never been homogenous or of one mind or spiritual body, despite numerous efforts toward the contrary, and made it clear that there were some uncomfortable historical shadows and parallels that had never been dealt with, and were still very much alive. A low birth rate dropped even lower, and a general malaise overtook broad swathes of the population; ensuing elections and political campaigns had been intense to say the least, as Japan was taken over by a relentless wave of popular criticism. And of course, the clan had made a literal and figurative killing in those years.

Not that Genji had really known or understood much of it, at the time. The air of uneasiness and anxiety had been palpable, and he had alternated between staying together inside with his mother when she was home from work, crafting his own worlds to adventure and explore, and raucously playing on the grounds. He had wanted to leave and go outside, go to the parks and see shops, but things had been tense then and he had been denied continuously, save for the allotted times that were planned for. The only ones allowed to come and go were his father, the higher ranking members, Hanzo’s mother, and very occasionally, Hanzo. When he had pointed to Hanzo as an example and demanded to be allowed to venture outside Shimada Castle, he was told that Hanzo had special circumstances.

Hanzo had always had special circumstances. As a boy he had thought of Hanzo as a warm presence, if dour and serious. He played with him of course, and laughed, and was at times quite mischievous and prone to getting into even larger mishaps than Genji whenever he did get into them, as if he was squirreling up all his tricks for just the right moment. But he was equally prone to turning inward on a dime, withdrawing into himself, easily spending days alone reading records and books. Occasionally, he would leave the estate for extended periods of time, presumably with his mother, but at some point those trips out had stopped, and he remained in the castle almost all the time, particularly after his dragons had surfaced. All the same, Hanzo was not particularly quiet; he had presence and over time, learned to project it. He spoke from his diaphragm, he had learned to keep his composure, but it didn’t mean that Hanzo had ever learned to stop running hot.

Those are the things that Genji remembers about his brother; the arrogance, the calculating acuity, the night missions and scheming had all come later. And they’re also part of why the deterioration of their relationship had been so upsetting. In many ways, Genji had felt like Hanzo would always be there, answering his texts and calls, his questions, there to play voice of reason to his voice of spontaneity. Knowing that there was no turning back, no way to patch or repair, had driven Genji out of the house more than anything, knowing that he didn’t really have any allies, knowing there was nowhere to go but down. And to think, he’s chosen a path of forgiveness. How unreal, how ridiculous, how stupid. Were he still in Blackwatch, he’d have torn himself apart for even daring to think on it.

Forgiveness is hard work. Feels like a pipe dream sometimes. Feels somewhat like the Iris, ephemeral, ethereal, intangible and impossible to quantify except on one’s own terms. Being on his own, truly alone, for the first time had been harrowing, uncertain, disorienting in every way. Waking up with no direction, no one telling him what to do or what he should be doing was refreshing, but also frightful. Forgiveness feels the same. He sees his brother, plays assassin, plays enlightened, plays mysterious, but there is no arguing with the sword in his hand, the virtual buttons he presses as he puts together the kana, the words, to form a sentence. No more thought experiments, everything he does is permanent, leaves marks and trails. Whether or not the world is watching, the fact is that Genji is watching his own each and every movement, wondering if he can truly pull off the biggest trick, the biggest miracle and stroke of luck, he ever has in his life. When they met he was confrontational, inciting, goading, almost lofty. Now he is just uncertain.

But sometimes, he can’t even tell if he really believes. Maybe he’s just seeing echoes. A line of text tells him, “do as you like”, as always. His master tells him that he must learn to walk his own path, but sometimes Genji feels that in hindsight, that’s all he’s ever been doing, walking blind, playing a character he never really understood. Repetitive circles he’s walked, but perhaps once more will be his pilgrimage. Perhaps this time, he’ll reach a resolution. Or perhaps, he’ll fail.


	4. Chapter 4

For all that they’ve been communicating more or less regularly for the past month and a half, they’ve really not spoken of much. Their conversations feel familiar because they are trying to lean on old patterns to grease the wheels, both unsure how to broach a little over eight years’ worth of separation, vengeful anger, and mourning. But the end result is that they’re not talking about anything important, and are instead just trying to keep in contact. At least, Genji is trying to keep in contact. He’s not sure what Hanzo’s doing. Despite being surprisingly responsive to Genji’s initial messages, Hanzo does not take action in any other way. He never messages first, replies in short sentences or single word answers, and takes advantage of the default emoji sets to acknowledge and respond to messages, and also cut off all further conversation. Sometimes even Genji has to admire his brother’s penchant for efficiency.

Either way, it means that he’s waiting on his wayward brother under the awning of a Family Mart in Yokohama. He’s kind of regretting it, but can’t afford to miss the chance of meeting Hanzo while he’s still open to it. The trade-off is arriving in the midst of rainy season. Genji had tried to visit Sankei-en that day, only for it to start _absolutely pissing_ rain. And once he got there, he couldn’t even enjoy it.

Sankei-en was certainly not Shimada Castle – for one, Shimada Castle was built as a fortress for a clan with a legacy of mercenary and assassination work, not as the relaxing, aesthetically pleasing residence and history-rich grounds of a wealthy silk trader with an inclination towards preserving buildings. There were not so many lush, choreographed gardens and wide ponds, no built-in teahouses, fewer open, tranquil spaces boasting buildings meant to blend in naturally with their settings and emphasize the simple beauty of the natural world. Instead, the Castle’s bright red columns and gables taunted and dared enemies to risk their necks trying to infiltrate the compound while alluding to the clan’s historical occupation as lumber suppliers for shrines and temples. Despite the differences, the careful engineering of Sankei-en’s grounds produced an air of restrained solemnity and reverence that brought to mind afternoons of playing extreme versions of tag that had been clever exercises in tracking and identifying sightlines, as well as miserable ceremonies like his shichi-go-san, where the heated whispers of the adults and gloom of the ongoing Crisis had Hanzo grabbing him by the hand and gently leading him home before he could burst into overwhelmed tears.

Another point of contention between himself and Hanzo: Genji simply isn’t very fond of tradition, or sticking to the way that things are done. It isn’t for him and has never been for him. An original, singular, self-determining human being doesn’t need to cling to the past or to the actions of those who have come before them. People need to keep moving, not get buried in dust and ash. But Hanzo had never seen things that way.

“You look lost.”

A faint metallic whir and click, the shadows of reds and oranges, and Genji turns to his left, right around the corner of the building, only to brush shoulders with Hanzo. Leaning against the neighboring wall, he turns his head away slightly to blow out a stream of smoke. His fingers flick deftly against the newly lit cigarette to fling ash into lingering puddles, embers instantly extinguished. It’s already mostly a stub. For a moment, Genji thinks he can smell the fragrant, spicy stench of cigarillos, but that too, fades in an instant.

“I was supposed to meet someone here,” Genji says, playing along, jarred. Hanzo sounds matter-of-fact, tiredly amused like he’s repeating an old, fond joke, words lined with just the shyest edge of wry. The indignant sneering and prideful posturing of their brief reunion has entirely disappeared, and with it, the carefully maintained kyudo-gi and meticulously groomed beard and hair.

Hanzo is scruffy, beard in need of pruning and hair bundled into a loose knot at the back of his neck, all manner of stray flyaways and cowlicks abound. Under the eyes he’s bruised and tired, tinted with unhealthy purples and blues, his gaze unusually limpid and lax, half-lidded, like he doesn’t have the energy to spare. Gaunt cheeks distract from the soft line of his shoulders, back slouching into a baggy, worn crew sweatshirt and knock-off joggers; a horrible turkey-like blob and the words _abibas_ glare up at Genji from his brother’s pant leg. The elastic holding his hair together cheerfully boasts two round, teal bobbles. His hands, as always, look old. Thick, weathered fingers and broad palms, incurably dry and calloused from years of archery, swordsmanship, and weapons training. The faintest traces of dirt seem to be trapped under his nails, line his nailbeds.

He continues smoking leisurely, as if they have all the time in the world. Genji counts six more cycles of inhale-exhale before Hanzo says, “Here I am.”

“Here you are,” Genji parrots faintly, coughs a little. This is so very far beyond his expectations. Dreamlike, for Hanzo to just be standing here with him idly under the awning of a small franchised conbini, watching the sun set on Yokohama, completely wiped of all the markers that Genji used to identify him with. If Hanzo is nervous, suspicious, or ready to spring a trap, Genji cannot read it in his face. The distance between his eyebrows remains placid.

His older, old brother, he pinches out the end of the cigarette with his fingers, and flips open a portable ashtray to reveal a short line of compatriots lined up quietly inside. The ashtray then goes into the large front pocket of the soft guitar case that’s been draped over his shoulder limply the entire time, completely forgettable, which is how Hanzo probably likes it.

“Do you know a good place,” Genji blurts. “For dinner I mean.”

Hanzo stares at him a little, mouth a thin line, before his gaze darts away again. The space between his brows wrinkles. Better. That’s much more normal.

“….what do you want to eat,” he says cautiously, dubiously. It’s not a question.

“Do you think I don’t eat,” Genji parries incredulously, and hisses a little at the misstep before he can stop himself.

Hanzo gives him a flat, cool look but says politely, on the verge of formal, “I cannot claim to know what you do or don’t do.”

“Yes, well, I eat,” Genji says impatiently, attempting to reign in his exasperation. The topic of his nutritional requirements has come up repeatedly over the years, and his consumption of food is something he’s found to be a demarcation line between his cyborg body and the average omnic. He had spent months, close to a year, hooked up to a nutrient line, and even when he could finally eat solid foods, nothing had tasted the same again. Simply eating fed into the conflicting feelings he bore about his body, hating the spectacle that eating in public could cause, frustrated that he could never pass fully for human, angry that he would be made to feel awkward or uncomfortable or somehow like he was selling out, just for fulfilling a basic bodily need he required to live. He would wonder where his daredevil self went, the one who didn’t care what others thought of him. He knows now that the sentiment was never entirely true – he had always cared what others thought of him.

With a sharp, mechanical jerk of the head, Hanzo nods, and begins to walk off. Genji scowls but follows.

“There is a food stand with a good selection nearby,” his brother explains, words a bit sharp, clipped. He doesn’t look at Genji as he speaks.

“Well, if you think so,” Genji mutters, unable to stop himself. No response from Hanzo, who merely keeps up his brisk stride.

The stand turns out to be tucked into a makeshift plaza in the spare, empty space behind a jazz bar and its neighboring record store, the credit registers forming waypoints between three linked prefab  food stations. Busy line cooks ring small call bells impatiently as they slip freshly made plates onto the sill of a wide service window blocked off by short noren, so that only the hands of the servers can be seen as they whisk the plates to and away, ghostly. Pinned to the top corners of the central window are two speakers, wires trailing inside, broadcasting the band that must be playing live inside the bar. The tables and chairs dotting the rest of the space are mismatched, some of them plastic patio furniture, others folding wooden chairs and collapsible metal tables, all of it blissfully dry. Containers in the middle of the tables allow for self-service, holding napkins, chopsticks, spoons, knives, and folded, laminated menus. Compost and recycling bins take care of the leftover food waste, plates, and utensils.

It’s nothing like what Genji expected, though he should know better than to keep expecting. His expectations are out of date, that’s becoming clearer by the second, and he has no frame of reference with which to replace them with new ones. Hanzo leads him to a rickety foldable table draped with a vinyl red gingham tablecloth, strategically placed near a food station but at the edge of the space, right next to a planter box on wheels. The plants are fake. As they sit, Genji can’t help but notice [the music streaming](https://koenjihyakkei.bandcamp.com/track/djebelaki-zomn) from the service window, smooth, melodic blasts of clarinet and saxophone woven between fast moving keyboards, an incomprehensible operatic vocal line, and noisy guitar chords. It’s absolutely bizarre and he can’t help but wonder how it can be in any way considered jazz. He glances at Hanzo, but his brother seems to pay no mind.

The first thing his brother does is order shochu. He measures the liquor out into two glasses, but doesn’t touch it until they both order— _a bowl of a sanma-men please; could we make that two_?

In one go, Hanzo drains his glass to half-empty. Genji can’t drink. It’s like a scene in a movie, the two of them entirely silent, surrounded by raucous salarymen celebrating the end of a long week with only more overtime in sight, chatty high schoolers treating themselves with their pocket money, the steady shouts of the stand workers who turn out order after order. Disjointed, jerky, music buzzes on behind it all, as if to hint at the characters’ true mental states. Sallow backstreet lights cast everything in chiaroscuro shades of jaundice and bruise.

“This isn’t what I really expected when I found you,” Genji murmurs, mind stuck and repetitive.

Hanzo answers anyway, his voice quiet and steady. “How did you find me?”

“Rumors,” Genji replies immediately.

Hanzo’s glass fills again. “There are no rumors,” he hisses, voice dark and bitter. “Or there should not be.”

“And yet,” Genji says, his eyebrow arched. A hard-earned eyebrow; it took months for his hair to grow back in, and it patches where the scar tissue cuts through. He flicks his finger against Hanzo’s glass with a metallic ping and lets his brother fill in the knowledge as he likes. It’s too early for Genji to say anything yet, and it won’t be the right time until he’s sure that Hanzo will hear him out and give him a proper answer.

Hanzo’s lips press into a thin white line again; he drinks until his glass is empty. “The guards talk too much,” he mutters.

“I would be surprised if they did not. After all, security is part of their job.”

“And they are clearly having so much success.” Another glass finished. That’s three already. Hanzo pours another but nudges the glass off to the side. His mouth twists, his lips part briefly, but in the end he says nothing.

“So you’ve been to Yokohama before,” Genji says, trying to rescue them from an awkward silence.

“Genji,” Hanzo says with the undertone of a sigh, and the sound of his name is like the pop of a rifle, jerks him to a startle and clenches his hands on the table top. It’s the first time Hanzo has said his name since Hanamura. “Just say what it is you want.”

Hanzo knocks back the entire glass of shochu.

Genji’s mind is blank, sirens blaring. Even though he was just thinking of what to tell Hanzo about how he’d found him, on how to broach this exact subject with him, now he can’t think of a single word to say. Being back in Japan has him all twisted up and disoriented, at night, resting by himself in abandoned buildings, in temple shelters, walking city streets until the sun rises again. He sees familiar sights, thinks on things he wanted to forget and throw away, is brought face to face with a history and past he thought he had discarded. Here, the brother who killed him speaks to him in the tone he once used to soothe his frightened, angry tantrums and the worry and anxiety that caused them. He would wipe away his tears with the special bandanna that his mother had given him, as if to show Genji how much those tears mattered, and sneak him to his room where they would sit together until Genji felt better. Coming to this meeting, Genji had been prepared to fight, to argue and debate, to wheedle, to carefully rebuild for a few months more.

This is not in the script. This is not how it was meant to go. In the background, the reeds and voices rise in a repetitive, pulsating crescendo.

He is not ready after all.

Hanzo is turning red in the cheeks, rotating his empty glass carefully with his index fingers, leaving fingerprints behind. The middle of his left hand is wrapped in gauze.

"You told me it was time to pick a side,” he says slowly, “But what sides are these? I presume you know how I make my living. Some might say that in the marketplace, there are no sides, just bidders.” He switches to English, and the change drops ice down Genji’s spine. “Am I to believe you defeated me, did not kill me, made demands of me, solely on a lark?” Suddenly, a cackle, a staccato ha-ha-ha, straight from his belly. “Heh, but you are not a lark, are you, Sparrow.”

“I came to forgive you,” Genji says woodenly, but his voice shakes minutely. He wonders if this is what the rival syndicates used to face across their tables at all those midnight meetings.

“There is something that you want,” Hanzo says, drawling in their mother tongue, lacking the sharp, hard-hitting, carefully bitten consonants of his English. He splashes more alcohol in his glass, and his eyes wander over the scars he carved in Genji’s face, what little he can see with the helm of Genji’s faceplate removed. “You are here. You do not need to dispense with this small talk. Yours is a bid that cannot be refused.”

Genji’s fingers flatten and dig into the crinkling tablecloth. “There is always a choice,” he says. “There should always be a choice.”

Another cackle, drowned and dying in shochu. “In the end, you seem to have listened to our father’s stories quite carefully.”

“I did not lie,” Genji retorts, “I did come to forgive you. To speak to you. So that perhaps…we could become brothers again.”

Hanzo tilts his head, inscrutable, leans back on the back legs of his chair, traces a finger around the rim of his glass. “Perhaps,” he echoes, looking Genji in the eye. He drinks and does not look away until the waiter arrives with their food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Conbini stands for convenience store, which in East Asia supply a plethora of snacks, ready made food, and increasingly, utilities. You can pay your bills at the convenience store, or pick mail up from a locker.
> 
> This chapter I've exposed you to my tendencies toward weird music - I know people hate genre categories but imo in music it's still helpful to help you find what you're looking for. Koenji Hyakkei's music falls into the zeuhl substyle of prog rock, and does flirt with some jazz fusions. 
> 
> And Hanzo is finally here!


	5. Chapter 5

Hanzo’s swaying gait leads them along Minato Mirai, gradually veering toward the Kishamichi Promenade. The colorful lights make the harsh planes of his face softer and vanish the bags under his eyes. He wouldn’t let Genji near the bill and had at least four more glasses of shochu, putting him somewhere near pleasantly tipsy.

Genji wanted to tell him to stop drinking. It worried him somehow, the speed and volume at which Hanzo drank. Even in his youth, Hanzo had never drunk so much so quickly. Then again, if Genji had killed his own brother and found out he was alive ten years later, he would likely be drinking too. Or worse.

“You are taking jobs, aren’t you?” Genji asks, fiddling with one of the strings on his hoodie.

His eyes widen briefly, but a blink brings Hanzo back to his usual composure. “It is what I was trained to do,” he says, with the same fatalistic acceptance that used to drive Genji absolutely spare, “It is what I have done my entire life.”

Aside from managing various illegal and legal enterprises and being a mathematical physics nerd, Genji thinks privately. There was plenty else that Hanzo could have done. A Kyodai graduate could have plenty of doors open to them. While Hanzo hadn’t exactly made an active decision on where he would be going to university, he’d always acted as if there was only a single path, with no alternatives. So inflexible.

Genji can feel the weight of Hanzo’s gaze on him, but takes the time to gather his thoughts first. He’d gone to Hanamura without a plan, save for the goal of confirming that Hanzo was the castle’s unwanted yearly visitor. The possibility of his disappeared brother being the target he’d been intent on tracking had been entirely surreal and bizarre. Combing records and tracking leads after the big bust had turned up nothing; no one seemed to know what had happened to Hanzo, if anything, or where he had gone. One day he was there, and the next, he was not. With Blackwatch’s reduced network, there was only so much information available on what sorts of new players had emerged in the pool of contract mercenary and paramilitary types, and that didn’t include the more complicated webs of brokers, hackers, and off-the-radar contractors who worked solely based off informal networking, word-of-mouth, and the profile of their assignments.

The general consensus was that Hanzo had likely gone to ground in the latter market, or become the sort of local, underground agent that one couldn’t reach without the right contacts. Without critical informants, there was no way to make sure until a body surfaced with Hanzo’s handiwork written all over it. Months later, several did, skyrocketing the bounty that had been posted since his disappearance, but by then, there had been other problems on Blackwatch’s hands and tracking Hanzo had become low priority for several reasons.

It had infuriated him, then. The Shimada bust had been conspicuously neat, despite the bluster that government officials and moles had created when Blackwatch interference was first brought to light. A good 65% of enterprises and activities had been formally registered and made legitimate, completely above board, including, surprisingly, a newly acquired subsidiary of Izumi Electronics. But the money laundering, weapons trading, and human and Omnic trafficking hidden underneath had been oddly fragmented, already withering from a series of busts in the months before, their connections to other criminal networks leaked to the securities and police forces of the appropriate countries, warehouses raided. Records and information were easily found, as if a trail had already been pieced out for them. The clan had clearly been suffering from a hemorrhage of information, one that Reyes had strongly suspected was due to the leadership.

“Told you once, I’ll tell you again,” he had said, arms folded in the debriefing, looking at the evidence spread up on the holointerfaces all around. “Your brother would have made a great agent. He practically made us his cleanup crew and then slapped a big bow on all the evidence before hand-delivering it on a silver platter.”

But Genji hadn’t cared. He only cared that he had been deprived of the revenge he’d been promised. He’d wanted to continue tracking the loose ends, dig up every single scrap of information that even hinted at Hanzo’s presence, but Reyes, in his infinite wisdom, told him he’d be partnering with Overwatch for a while so “Angie can keep an eye on your shiny new duds”. Undergoing an extended period of medical and mechanical evaluation and adjustment, working the new, above-board missions that weren’t just hack-and-slash infiltration jobs, he had begun to waver, to wonder what he was doing, what a future could look like, if he had one at all. Following Hanzo’s cold trail was as good as impossible for him – his only connections were to Blackwatch and Overwatch, and there was no one else he could turn to for tracking down his wayward murderer. Perhaps Hanzo was already dead, and Reyes was wrong. Whatever the truth, Genji was left to wrestle this unresolved thread on his own along with his new shiny and chrome, inching closer and closer to autonomy with every adjustment Angela made. And eventually, plagued by what-ifs, who-am-Is, and what-to-dos, he left.

Under Zenyatta’s tutelage, he found himself asking more and more questions, and one of them had been what he would do if he ever managed to meet Hanzo again. Kill him, was his automatic answer, but watching the delegitimization of his former clan, his former family, did not make him feel more at peace, did not, in fact, help him feel vindicated or more alive. All it did was deprive him of a purpose and leave him with just the everyday struggle of feeling like his limbs weren’t his, wondering why, how this had happened to him, and how reconcile an existence with living. Why things had gone the way they had. Why things had felt inevitable. Why it hurt him to hate Hanzo at times, why he could sometimes still remember him with fondness when he would have nightmares of being shredded, then buried alive with dirt in his wounds, drowned by Hanzo’s tears, his sobs inescapable. Hanzo always did what had to be done, the responsible one. But Genji was family too. Genji was blood too. Did that count for nothing?

Confronting Hanzo is just as much about confronting himself. He needs to remember that. In the end, it is to help himself.

“It was…optimistic to say that I came to forgive you,” Genji amends to his audience of one. So close to the neon city skyline, there are no stars. “But I also was not lying, before. There is much for us to talk about. And you say you have been taking jobs...I have heard that those jobs have been getting you quite some attention.”

Hanzo’s heavy gaze on his back sharpens even in his alcohol glossed state, and for the first time that night his lips curl up into an ugly, twisted kind of smirk as he lets out something akin to a bark, a loud noise full of derision and bitter resignation. This is the brother Genji recognizes.

“What kind of attention has reached even your ears, brother, to clamor so loudly to raise you from the grave?” he chortles, dark and malicious.

The simmer of anger is a close friend. “Talon, Anija,” Genji says, struggling to keep his voice level. “I hear they’ve come knocking.”

“Why would you be interested in Talon?” Hanzo huffs. “Do not tell me you have acquaintances there.”

In his shock, Genji stops walking altogether. “Familiar with Talon?! What would make you think that?!”

“Why not?” Hanzo says, with the errant bounce of one broad shoulder. Genji can no longer make heads or tails of the conversation. “How do I know that this is not a trick? Many of their members seem to have been exposed to highly experimental procedures and technologies.”

“I would not work with Talon,” Genji scoffs, beginning to walk again.

“I cannot claim to know what you do or don’t do,” repeats Hanzo, voice low.

“Then I will tell you,” Genji says determinedly. “I do not work for Talon. I work for no one but myself. But the world is changing, and Talon is part of the reason why. I heard word that they were recruiting.”

“They led you to me,” says Hanzo. “But that does not answer my question.”

“I said that I wanted to talk,” Genji repeats, watching as the time on the Cosmo Clock 21 ferris wheel ticks over to 21:45. It’s early yet. “And Talon has already shown that they are willing to seek you out.”

It is Hanzo’s turn to stop. Genji can hear him breathing, rapid inhales and exhales. His head tilting down, Genji watches him curl in on himself, raising hands – what look to be shaking hands—up to his face, as if covering it, trying to smother himself into calm.

When Hanzo speaks, his voice is clear. “This is what you want, then,” he says. “This is what you were after. You want to, to follow me, to lie in wait for Talon.”

“And to talk,” Genji adds firmly.

Hanzo head jerks to the side. “It is inefficient,” he says evenly. “Why not track their activities directly?”

“I may be working alone,” Genji says, stuffing his hands into his hoodie’s kangaroo pockets, “But I am not the only one who holds such an opinion on Talon’s role in global matters. We all do what we can. This is what I can, and want to do.”

Hanzo stares at him. Deep breaths whistle in and out of flared nostrils on what seems like a three-second count. Time stretches, neither of them making a move, nor saying a thing, The ferris wheel’s clock changes again, marking the pass of another minute.

Finally, Hanzo spins on his heel and continues walking. “Do as you like,” he says quietly.

It is endlessly bothersome to hear that phrase again, at this exact time, at this critical moment. But Genji won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. He’ll take what he can get for now, and he’ll make that answer change. Continuing on the promenade without a word, the both of them on silent feet, Genji watches the whirling rainbow lights, the hulking shadows of skyscrapers, and the dappled reflections on the water. Amidst the humidity that rests across his shoulders like a blanket, a light breeze stirs. He takes it as a good omen.


	6. Chapter 6

Traveling with Hanzo is both worse and better than Genji thought it would be. He doesn’t trail after his brother aimlessly as he feared, and sees many more cities than he would have on his own thanks to his brother’s continuing lifetime case of workaholism. They tend to drift apart and then float back together for meals or for forcibly casual jaunts, once again arranged by Genji over text. The texting is one of the things that is worse, because Genji sees his brother almost every day and yet is never able to book any of his time while he is in the room.

On the other hand, he’s traveling with Hanzo and Hanzo kills people for money. His brother likely assumes that Genji is inured to the covert world of brokered assassinations and all the dirty work that must be done to accomplish them. He’s not wrong, but being plunged back into it after several years of being away from wet work is a little shocking. What his brother does is different from what he and McCree used to do, or even what they did in the clan. His brother has no Gerard, no Winston, no Moira, much less a Mercy, and definitely no back up. Assignments come with high price tags, but also at varying levels of completion and complexity. So Hanzo is always on the run, always armed, and tends to spend his days finding ways to follow people, figure out their patterns of movement, and brainstorm methods to carry out his assignments to specification. It takes a surprising amount of time and problem-solving skill, from what Genji can tell.

Genji had expected long, uncomfortable days full of tension and unresolved frustrations, loud arguments, maybe some tears, the onslaught of irrepressible anger. He expected that at some point, he might want to walk away. But he didn’t think of the jobs and being confronted by his brother’s not-so-mundane, daily life, or being left alone in another new apartment at a ridiculously off hour in the morning.

Hanzo’s targets tend to be other criminals, mid-level bosses rising to prominence, high-level lieutenants or informants, money launderers, corrupt celebrities and socialites, indiscrete bankers with secrets to hide, and sometimes, not-so-innocent people like himself who got away from powerful targets with an axe to grind. Most have contracts out, but if he comes across a bounty he doesn’t refuse it. Another portion of his work revolves around infiltration and information retrieval, and occasionally he seems to team up with one or two close contacts to complete jobs that require extra skillsets. Most surprisingly, Hanzo seems to be something of a broker himself, the equivalent of a late 20th century rolodex. As is the nature of a paranoid assassin who survives off the quality of his information, Hanzo has his ear to the ground and is a serial networker, and apparently knows how to make introductions immaculate enough that he can accrue some clout and favors.

Oh, Genji readily believes that Hanzo is deliberately avoiding spending too much time with him. They’ve spent humid, hot, rainy afternoons waiting for the typhoons to pass, stuck together in a room, the storm locked inside with them. There are nights where they stay awake together in opposite corners of a space, each pretending to be asleep while they lie with lids pried wide open in the darkness, a single blink encapsulating the difference between sleeping and waking. When they text their conversations sound just the same as eight, ten, fifteen years ago, no change, and the real words, the proper words fester in Genji like the phantom pains that consumed his waking days once upon a time, still present but in ghostlike twinges, like the chronic soreness of an overused and abused muscle that over time, could drive one to desperation.

How does one make a smooth segue into the topic of forgiveness? Genji sees every day the signs of Hanzo’s idea of remorse, penance, unworthiness. Everywhere they go, he travels with two collapsible duffels containing just four sets of clothing, one set of them a finely embroidered, tightly woven, rarely worn kyudo-gi and monpe, weapons and ammunition of various sorts, and a fake instrument case. They squat, they kip under highways, they sneak into cargo planes and train storage cars, they rent cramped motel rooms, they slip anonymously in and out of peer-to-peer rented rooms and fake identities, and out in the middle of nowhere they might sleep in a tent procured from somewhere among Hanzo’s things, no amenities provided. Hanzo often does not entirely remember to shave or eat; when he does it is haphazard and absent minded, done in rote, cheap razors or sharpened pocket knives leaving bloody nicks along his chin and cheeks. His old fastidiousness is gone - he makes instant bags of rice, dumps natto on it, shakes it about and eats it with disposable chopsticks for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He is frugal, mostly purchasing replacement arrows, ammo, food, electronics, components for more weaponry and gadgets, and the transactional fees he needs to pay to stay elusive. It’s a contrast to their lifestyles as young men – Hanzo was still positively pennypinching compared to Genji’s youthful extravagance, but when he spent on something he felt was worth it, Hanzo would spend big, and he prided himself on his expensive taste.

Where Genji can, he finds ways to work too – helping out those he bumps into on the street, taking temporary work for those times when Hanzo has longer term, covert jobs. He learns to read Hanzo’s face to know when they will move on; he gets the grim look of a job well done, his mouth set into a perfectly horizontal line, and he begins to tidy his things. About him floats a feeling of exhaustion and malaise, and at times the thundercloud expands, hangs in every strand of Hanzo’s hair, the hollows under knifelike cheekbones, the sunken, faraway eyes, and sometimes he stares at Genji as if he’s looking through him, as if his silhouette were wavering and indistinct. It’s a look that makes Genji uneasy, and when he thinks about it he stops himself from shuddering and thinking of how and who he was just several years ago, still struggling with his own ghost, his own fight to understand whether he was dead or alive.

As they are now, they are more nomadic than the Bedouin that Genji had stayed with for a time, trying to find footing in quick shifting stands and the heated dry air, bound down by the infrastructure of existing, a system that Genji never thought of when he was younger. That is how they text like, him and Hanzo. Like the decade never happened, as if they were younger and still each other’s partner-in-crime and best friend. Simultaneously mired where they are, and where they were. How to speak of forgiveness? 

Watching and learning the Hanzo of the present, he finds he wants more than that. The forgiveness has already been given, whether he’s been able to explain himself and his desires to Hanzo or not, so perhaps it is less about forgiving, than it is reaching resolution. He wants to understand what happened to them. And watching Hanzo’s pinched, wan face and the way he tries to hide longing looks at the gleaming bottles of alcohol on the shelves when they pass by corner stores, Genji finds that he also wants to tell Hanzo that he is allowed to stop. That he was wrong and he has plenty of abilities beyond the arts of killing, that he doesn’t have to live this way. To live only by virtue of picking off others, dishonest work. The rhythm of this transient life is hypnotizing – edged in the discomfort of deliberate ignorance, constantly measuring out the right things to say and best ways to respond, yet moving about each other with the easy rhythm of the long acquainted.

Hanzo never tells him to leave or fuck off, bears his presence with the same stoic, contained attitude he’s had since he was a preteen. Genji keeps catching his failed attempts not to stare, but if he has any questions he never asks them, only talks or asks about what Genji’s been up to if Genji manages to wander there himself in the course of sparse conversation. It’s upsetting and dismaying that Hanzo is at his most honest when close to blackout drunk, on the days that Genji spends more time away.

“Why have you not killed me?” Hanzo will plead, balanced on the edge of desperation. He is a disciplined drunk, never raises his hands to Genji, instead squeezes at his palms, pats him all over as if to make sure he’s there, runs his fingers along the seams of his faceplate like he misses seeing him. The close contact is a welcome surprise since they almost never touch, but the question hurts him to hear. He does not want to kill Hanzo, nor does he want him to die. And that is what he tells Hanzo too, as gently as he knows how.

He watches Hanzo leave and return smelling of blood and death or sometimes the non-smell of generic, scentless soap, and wonders if his brother is out there chasing death in return. The slide between Hanzo’s disciplined, controlled self, his impulsive spontaneity, and the tired apathy is sharply felt, for even in his bad habits, Hanzo regiments himself. When Genji returns frequently, Hanzo allows himself no more than a smoke or two at his most agitated. It is only when he is out and about for longer lengths of time that Hanzo is found in the bottom of a bottle. As in his work, Hanzo waits for the best opportunities to strike.

“What do you want from me?!” Hanzo will snarl, angry as he has always been, because he is frustrated and unsure, because despite being a kyudo practitioner he is still impetuous and impatient. An odd combination, Genji has thought before, but that’s his brother all over. Hanzo always disliked what he could not control, especially when the thing he couldn’t control was himself. For all his cold pragmatism and enforced pride, Hanzo is at heart passionate, focused, and hungry. His brother the scholar, always trying to learn, always seeking why.

Predictably: “Why?” Hanzo will ask, and the same question that Genji asks himself all the time. And the why is an odd, misshapen, complex thing.

“Because I want us to be brothers again,” he says.

“Because there is still hope for you,” he says.

What he does not say: I did not truly understand you then, and I still do not understand you now. I want to know. I want to know what tipped your hand that day. I want to know what you were thinking each week that led up to that point. I am here now, and I want to know what your life has been like.

I want to know if there truly is still hope for you.


End file.
